Two Minutes
by altairattorney
Summary: You have been murdered countless times, and all you have learnt is that death just doesn't work that way.


**Two Minutes**

"Well, you found me. Congratulations."

That sounds strange.

The first thought you have, albeit so simple, makes no sense at all. That is the last idea you would ever associate to your own words — especially in such levels of danger, enough to put your very safety at stake.

It is a matter of life or death, that much is clear. Why, then, is your consciousness reacting in all the wrong ways?

It takes you a couple more seconds to define what exactly is so off-putting about the whole situation. There is much seeping through your words — you are a tangle of anxiety and rage, shaken by poorly concealed fear.

Yet, for no apparent reason, none of it is to be found in yourself. All you can feel is detached, complete confusion. Ironically, that is the closest thing to a clue you have — it is the feeling itself to help you out of it, as the room turns green with a neurotoxin you never activated.

While the voice is yours, it isn't you speaking.

You would be ashamed to admit the next step is complete panic. There is something to be done, anything, before the counter hits zero. Because it must be stopped, _she_ must be stopped, and there must be a way to prevent it from happening again —

What was that thought, now?

You cannot afford to think anything more. Death is unbearable. The world becomes a blank, with just enough space for you to process that this pain, your pain, does not hurt the way you had expected. You are flying around in pieces, in any case. It will all be over soon.

You don't really understand when your field of vision finds its focus again. There is a split second of silence — just enough to process that _no, this makes even less sense than before, how_ —

"Well, you found me. Congratulations."

You scream in horror, and nobody is there to hear you. 

* * *

><p>"Was it worth it?"<p>

You never tire of answering it wasn't, even though there is no one to say it to. You got over the shock on your own, thousands of times ago. It is only fair to be past caring — you need it yourself, and that is all it takes.

You are positive your death was pointless. You have studied it long enough to go over all the possibilities, wrapped in bitterness and regret, as the chances you missed and lost forever unfolded each time under your gaze.

You died such a nameless death — it would have been so easy to avoid, you tell yourself as you analyze new details. And yes, as much as the facts may state the opposite, you convinced yourself long ago. If nothing else, it helps the little sanity you have left.

Even with the humans around, you had never felt this bad.

"Was it worth it?"

Not even like this, you think bitterly. Watching it happen endlessly, until the one living shard of yourself went numb with pain, really did not help as you hoped it would.

From all you have been taught, you can count one more lie to add to the list. Knowing things inside and out, they used to say, makes them familiar and friendlier than they ever will if left alone; memorizing, accepting, is the key to getting over them.

You have been murdered countless times, and all you have learnt is that death just doesn't work that way. 

* * *

><p>The sound of you being ripped to shreds is monotonous. You are no longer used to being surprised.<p>

That is why, when it changes for the first time, your terror increases tenfold.

Your fear does not last long, actually — while intense enough to make up for those infinite years, it is replaced, almost right away, by a feeling you did not remember in the slightest. It stirs calmly, step by step, spreading out to reach the scattered pieces your body has left all over the place.

Feeling better — feeling good — has never been this new.

The flow of electricity, steady and growing, hurries to sew you back together. You barely understand. You slip out of backup mode, in disbelief, taking a moment to contemplate the events; and what amazes you the most, as each part joins in the flurry of your awakening, is the timing.

The last thing you see while still blind is the end of the cycle. You don't even hear the familiar noises, crashing and whistling in your head, as the final image of your chassis comes apart — they are all soothed, wonderfully, by the renewed chant of energy in your head.

You remember how the smoke fades to black in the last frame. The end of the tape is part of you — an alarm bell of fear, a warning to get ready, so you can watch it all over again. This time, it is easier and harder to be prepared.

Of course, the scenery has not changed. Despite a few details, like water and light and a ridiculous state of disrepair, the key elements are all there — the chamber, you, her figure at your feet.

Despite the instinct to repeat, you think of a different way to address her. This is a fresh start, possibly a new agonizing tape to be burnt in your mind. With her, you can never know — you may as well make it worthwhile.

The rush of euphoria and rage come together. If everything goes well now, you are going to be finally free.

Reveling, for once, in her terror instead of yours, you speak.

"Oh. It's you."

You ignore the vivid overlap of your other first words.

* * *

><p><em>I love time loops too much for my own good, and this is the closest thing we Portal fans have to one.<br>__I guess I really am a horrible person._


End file.
